June
by kurgaya
Summary: WARNINGS INSIDE - Masaki isn't the only Kurosaki to die that night. Kisuke's too late - he's always too late.


**Notes**: Written for my 'purgatory' prompt for the **hurt/comfort bingo** on livejournal.

**WARNING**: Gore, angst, major character death (children + adults)

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**June**

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He's too late – he's always too late.

Glass is scattered about the pavement, a million fragments of terror and fright. The front door is hanging off its hinges, creaking like the broken jaw of the house – the bolts, strewn, are teeth shattered in their last scream for help. Like a gigantic, ruby tongue, streaks of blood are splattered across the entrance hallway. They coat a gory path for the howl of the evening wind to follow further into the desolating wreckage of the Kurosaki home. The house is breathless with silence, but Kisuke's wooden geta trek an eruption of reiatsu through the door, Benihime shrieking in agony. The deliberate _clip-clop_ of his shoes is the only sound that echoes back at him as he steps around the destruction – he glides over a photo frame, the smiles of the family splintered; he hastens to avoid the tiny shoes, dotted unpaired and laceless. His graceless entry doesn't bring about a ungainly welcome from the exuberant man that lives here – in fact, the only company that Kisuke receives when he ducks under a support beam, torn from the ceiling like a gruesome fracture of bone, is the _whoosh_ of Yoruichi crashing with all her feline elegance into the hall.

"_Shit_," she hisses, and she's cursing for more than just clipping the end of her jumper on the chunk of brick embedded in the wall. She tugs the fabric free and hurries to catch the fissured remnants of another photo frame as it crumbles to join the rubble on the carpet.

Kisuke would berate her, but the air is already thick with misery and demise and he's committed plenty of sinful acts in his life, but that's a line even he won't cross. The stench of Hollow is pungent and vile, but it's not enough to mask the bloodied evidence of the massacre that has taken place. The blonde shinigami tips his favourite hat back to sweep his gaze across the expanse of the house – something warm drips onto his nose like tears, and he swiftly recovers his face as the droplet of blood dribbles down his cheek. He doesn't look up, but he doesn't need to. The wild enthusiasm of his friend is lying crumpled in the living room, flattened into a motionless stagnancy atypical of his ingenuous nature. The life of Isshin's personality is spattered about him – up the walls and across the ceiling like a child's attempt at redecoration. It's going to stain the carpet as his presence has stained every other part of the house with his endless love and vivacious passion for his family and work.

It's going to reek, and Kisuke can't leave Isshin here like this. He can't leave him hunched in the wreckage of his family home, his limbs broken and frayed into an ugly deformation of his previous spirit. He can't leave him crushed over the tiny form of his dead daughter.

Yuzu's five.

She should be laughing at her father's comical mishaps, not staring blindly at the result of a past-come-haunting with the horrified eyes of a fawn, blank and innocent and weeping blood. Kisuke can't bring himself to look at her, but he forces himself to kneel down beside the distortion of his old friend and check the little girl's snapped neck for a pulse he knows he won't find.

(There's nothing left of Karin except a trace of reiatsu that could have matured into something _so much more_).

(It's over by the larger half of the TV – the games console is still whirring in thought, not having quite comprehended that there's no one to play it anymore).

Yoruichi tiptoes around the room in her human form, the lavender of her hair clashing with the enflamed red palette of the walls. The sleek midnight superstition of her more elusive physique would be an insult, and she doesn't need her sharp golden vision to cringe at the excess of carnage embellishing the room. Her footsteps are silent nevertheless – respectful and wary of the air of death that lingers like a hurricane. She keeps her hands tucked at her sides, lest she add to the ruin of the evening by raining down a storm of grief.

They can't even joke about being religious given the very nature of their existence, but Kisuke finds himself muttering a prayer anyway. Isshin's life is beyond his reach now, and the twins' flickering souls of starlight have been viciously consumed by the darkest of creatures. The scientist vows to find the Hollow that mercilessly gorged upon two innocent souls and enact the vengeance Isshin would scream for. There is little else he can do, and that thought sickens him.

He is always too late.

(Is this punishment for his sins? Is this purgatory before Heaven or damnation before Hell?)

Yoruichi calls to him, her voice a whisper of her typical cackle. She's standing in the remains of the kitchen – there's a wok overturned at her feet, a half-finished curry still trying to boil away across the floor. It's probably chicken korma, but little can be differentiated over the haunting stench of terror. The amber paste is hot and bubbling into the ground, thick with chunks of meat, glass, and bone. It's spiced with chilli and blood.

The light flickers and crackles across Yoruichi's dismay.

Kisuke slips his robe from the tight of his shoulders and rests it over his friend's back, as if one flimsy shawl will be enough to retain the last of the family's warmth before they chill and decay into corpses. The emerald of the fabric helps conceal the worst of the gashes that Isshin has sustained, at any least, although Kisuke knows it will be futile in stitching the gaping flesh and bone back together again. Even the miracles of kido would struggle to rebuild the grotesque jigsaw that Isshin's body has been shredded into. Kisuke was once the most renowned scientist in the Twelfth Division, but he's certain there are parts of the human body bespattered about the Kurosaki's front room that he's never seen before.

(Yuzu isn't lying under the _entire_ body of her father, after all).

The shopkeeper heaves himself to his feet. Blood trails after his agonising movements; it seeps into his clothes, clinging to him like a plea for freedom. He takes a breath to prepare himself for whatever awful news Yoruichi has to declare, willing Benihime to sooth her vengeful screeching for moment enough to rein the anxious coils of his reiatsu back in. His reiryoku twists and churns inside of him, imploring him to take action and rid the world of the monster that has snatched Isshin and his daughters away from –

"– Where's Masaki and Ichigo?"

They both ask it; demand it like salvation.

Yoruichi disappears like a gunshot.

What's left of the door crashes at her departure; Kisuke hears it erode from the hinges and collapse into the hallway. The house trembles at the thunder of the sound, but he is the only residual soul remaining to register the damning finality of the noise. Idly, he wonders if the neighbours will have anything to say about what has taken place. They're not spiritually aware by any means, and Kisuke supposes that is answer enough in a world where human ignorance flourishes murder.

Because that's what it was.

Murder.

Kisuke tips down the brim of his hat to hide the shadow of his frown.

Isshin and his family had dwelled safely in Karakura for over a decade, despite the former's lack of shinigami powers (and diverging common sense). Masaki has always been able to handle any stray Hollow that prey too close to her children, but even so, such dire circumstances have been few and far between in years since Isshin's self-exile. The Gotei Thirteen prowl the streets of this town – they may not have ample sense in their mastermind brains combined to realise that their vagabond fugitives are hiding right beneath their noses, but the patrols have seldom caused catastrophe enough for Kisuke to ever need to step in (reluctantly of course, but assist all the same).

Thus, the officer on duty should have been capable of dealing with a few measly Hollow, which leads Kisuke to ask himself two fundamental questions: _who was on duty_, and _was what had torn through the Kurosaki home merely a wandering Hollow_?

He trails his haunted gaze from the ruined disarray of Isshin's body to the window frame – the night's rain spits and splatters into the house through the gaping foundations. Lightning illuminates Kisuke's hunched posture in a bolt of fire – he straightens as the burn of the glow fades to rumble a warning of an imminent encore. The sky flashes again, silently screaming, but this time the gales howl their grief as the shinigami takes off his hat. Though his hands are coated in blood, dust, and the tremors of dread, Kisuke flattens the hat against his chest as he steps further around the room, as if the mediocre stripes and stitches will be enough to protect his hammering chest from the excruciating pain of sorrow.

The memories of the Kurosaki family creak and shatter beneath his feet as he works his way over the rubble. He tries to piece together the scene – the hole in the wall, the splinters of the door and cracks in the windows, Isshin's dying desperation to protect his two young daughters – but no matter where his heavy gaze flicks to, all Kisuke can perceive is the tattered body of his friend rotting on the carpet. The veins and slicks of blood splashed about the normality of the Kurosaki home all lead blackened paths towards the dominant point of the room; a crimson centrepiece, Isshin is haunting to look at.

_Why now_, Kisuke thinks, turning to face the twilight June thunder. Rain continues to spit into the house, a million chilling tears. _What does Aizen have to gain by removing the Kurosaki family from his plan?_

He's not deluded – they had all known that Aizen was watching the Kurosaki clinic. Yet to confront the spying eyes would have risked their safety – the Visoreds' safety; the childrens' safety, so there had been little they could do. Revealing themselves to Aizen (and the Gotei Thirteen) was not an option they had been willing to take, so they had resigned themselves to being scrutinised. And since nothing more had occurred than simply being surveyed (which was worrying in itself, yes, but on the grander scheme of things it was miniscule in comparison to what Aizen _could_ do), it had been decided that playing safe was the best course of action.

Something – or someone – had clearly made Aizen change his tactics.

Kisuke has no idea of _what_, but as Yoruichi flashes back into the living room with a bolt of lightning in her step, he has an idea of _whom_.

"Kisuke –" is all she can seem to bring herself to gasp as she slips into the living room, trudging silent footsteps between the rumbles of thunder. Her violet hair is drowned in a stormy expression of despair and she shivers as the bitterness of the evening soaks through her clothes. In her arms, there's a bundle of sunlight; dying reds and oranges of a supernova, and he quivers and trembles in fear despite the numbness in his body. Yoruichi's hands are grasping him tightly, but there's nothing motherly about her embrace – her arms are tight with tension, speckled with rain and gore.

There's nothing _motherly_ at all in the room, and Kisuke doesn't even have to ask why. He crosses the room in an abundance of unsteady strides, his geta _click-click-clacking_ as he wobbles. Yoruichi hovers restlessly as he approaches, twitchy like a wary dog, her uneasy gaze once again sweeping the wreck of the room as if she needs reminding of what has happened. They share a terrible glance as Kisuke peels back the yellow hood of the raincoat, sticky and wet with blood, to reveal the lifeless exhaustion of the nine-year-old boy.

"He's alive," the scientist breathes, though he dares not press his hand under Ichigo's quavering jaw to make sure. The violent silence of Yuzu's soundless pulse and broken neck already stains his fingertips – he doesn't want to ruin the boy with the carnage of his family. Instead, he rubs the plastic fabric of the raincoat between his fingers, as if it's enough to offer comfort to the child – innocent and orphaned. "Masaki –"

"It was a Hollow," Yoruichi explains, almost snarling out the word. "There's nothing left of it now. I don't know what _imbecile_ was on duty tonight, but when I get my hands on him –"

The boy in her arms flinches despite the wearied slumber he is entangled in as her reiatsu spits dangerously. Both shinigami hold their breath at the movement, partly hoping he will remain oblivious to the sight of his family splattered around them, but also praying that he will wake, talk, and show any sign of his former spirit. It has been many years since Isshin and Masaki have brought Ichigo around to Kisuke's shop in a bid to keep their supernatural and humans lives separate for their children, but Kisuke has heard enough exuberant stories from the loving parents to piece together Ichigo's personality. Even as a toddler, crawling around tables and under Tessai's feet, Ichigo practically shone with a boundless energy.

Now he looks small and fragile in Yoruichi's hold – his sickly white face pressed against her shoulder, and his fiery hair dimmed and plastered across innocent cheeks and a young, rounded jaw. Fortunately, he sleeps peacefully on, though Kisuke is certain in the ultimate damnation of his dreams.

"What are we going to do with him?" Yoruichi asks.

The words, _give him to Masaki_, are so instinctual that Kisuke has to fight them from falling off his tongue. He coughs awkwardly as his mouth flounders for something else to say now that deterring to the boy's mother isn't an option – what _are_ they going to do with Ichigo?

"I suppose Ryuuken will have to take him," sighs the shopkeeper, wincing as a flash of lightning burns through the room. "He's the only family Ichigo has left."

_Minus the Shibas_, he thinks cynically, because dumping the boy at Kukaku's doorstep and proclaiming about _aunts_ and _uncles_ and _by the way, you remember Isshin? Well he wasn't dead but now he is! Here, have a child_ before making a mad dash back to Karakura is definitely not an option either.

Kisuke frowns and watches the gentle rise and fall of Ichigo's chest for a moment, trying to take comfort in the sight. The smell of rain and fear is starting to overwhelm the room in a vile incense of grief – with the stench of death already clinging to his clothes, the ex-shinigami captain knows he's not going to feel clean for a long while.

"Christ," he grumbles, running a hand through his hair. He doesn't put his hat back on, but instead fishes around in his pockets and pulls out a phone. _Trust Isshin to make such a mess of his own death_, Kisuke curses as he taps in a number, and a hot flush of wretchedness bubbles in his stomach at that thought. He settles an apathetic façade on his features to hide the guilt, but if Yoruichi's heavy sigh is anything to go by, the mask is cracked and chipped in places, and he's not fooling anybody.

"Are you calling Ryuuken?" she asks, her voice a whisper as the thunder continues to howl.

"No, no," Kisuke dismisses – he does _not_ want to be the one to break the news of his sister's death to the stoic Ishida. He doesn't elaborate, but then the voice on the other end of the line when the call picks up is thick and distinctive when it grumbles _this better be important_ in the smooth drone of Shinji Hirako's tone.

"It is," says the shopkeeper – and then he says nothing else, because there just aren't the words to describe the scene of butchery and suffering before him.

(He doesn't think he could bring himself to paint the picture of the scene anyway. Surrealism is a delicate form of art, all lines and shapes and interpretation, and everything from the shattered windows to the shattered bones of Isshin's spine is surreal in its horrific realism; there's little to _interpret_ beyond anguish and devastation).

Shinji doesn't sigh before he hangs up, a clear indication that he's noticed the severity of the situation from Kisuke's short and uncharacteristically solemn reply. "_I'll be right there_."

Kisuke stares at the bloody handprint now stretched across the phone before shoving the device back into his pocket. It sits like lead in his robes, the burden of death. The number of useful contacts in the memory is slowly starting to whittle away, but that doesn't make it any lighter. Instead, the severed connections leave behind a heavy weight – of guilt, of regret, of _what could I have done to change this_.

The horrible truth is that he _should_ have been able to prevent this. For his entire life (and that is a notably long time), Kisuke has been praised for his intellect and the ruthlessness at which he commits to his aspirations. Predicting Aizen's movements is a game of chess that he excels at – they have been playing this match for years, and Kisuke has committed to memorising his opponent's tricks and tactics. Although Aizen had moved first in white, Kisuke is the player that confronts him at every turn – the massacre of the Kurosaki family is on _his_ shoulders; a blunder, avoidable, and resulting in numerous unalterable consequences.

(_Pawns_, Aizen would say they were.

_The steadfast of his rooks_, Kisuke would correct as the castle topples and crumbles around him).

In Yoruichi's arms, Ichigo sniffles and whimpers, the first of many tormented dreams that will seep through his innocent conscience. Kisuke tries not to think about what the boy must have seen, though with the aftermath of the other Hollow attack still retching blood around them, it's not hard to imagine the scene of Masaki's death (rain and blood and thunder screaming). The likelihood that Ichigo will ever recall all of the vivid, vile details is slim, and Kisuke is grateful. With the power of both of his parents in his blood, there is no doubt that the child will one day frequently face battle and terror up in Soul Society. Yet it seems Fate has decided to hurl him into that world prematurely – crying and wailing because he's just a child, just a frightened child – to suffer before he thrives.

Nevertheless, Ichigo _will_ thrive. One day, he will be as headstrong and powerful as his father, and as strategic and protective as his mother. He will tear through the ranks of the Gotei Thirteen and demand his way to the top with his Shiba creativity and Kurosaki wit. Though he will not remember his parents beyond fragments of a childhood before the trauma to his memories, their presence will guide him towards success.

This terrible evening will shape Ichigo, but it won't destroy him.

Even if he has to take the boy under his own wing (his cunning, diplomatic wing of silence and regret), Kisuke will ensure it.

(Aizen will ensure it).

The scientist sighs and flattens his hat back onto his sodden, flaxen hair. Thunder crashes as a wild curse resounds in from the broken front door – Shinji has arrived, no doubt, and Kisuke pinches the bridge of his nose to prepare himself for the long evening ahead.

Glancing over at the sole survivor of this horrendous night, slumbering away the sight of his mother's last moments, Kisuke knows they won't be getting much sleep tonight.

Or for many June nights to come.

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**End Notes**: Please leave a comment as you go!

(Actually, please just don't shoot me for writing this - that would be fab)


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